"I cannot hear.... Who are you?" Myrrha murmured indistinctly.
"It is I, Arsinoë."
The invalid suddenly opened her wide luminous eyes and gazed fixedly on her sister.
"It seemed to me," said Myrrha with an effort, "it seemed to me that it was not you ... that I was utterly alone."
Then very slowly, with great difficulty, being scarcely able to move, she brought her transparent hands together, with an imploring look of fear. The corners of the lips trembled, the eyebrows moved.
"Do not abandon me! When I die, do not think that I am no more!"
Arsinoë leaned towards her, but Myrrha was too weak to kiss her, although she tried to do so. Arsinoë brought her cheek closer to the great eyes, and the young girl softly caressed her face with the long lashes. Arsinoë felt on her cheek a touch light as butterfly's velvety wings. It was a trick invented by Myrrha in childhood.
That last caress brought back to Arsinoë all their life together, all their mutual affection. She fell on her knees and, for the first time for years, sobbed irresistibly, as if the tears were melting her inmost heart.
"No, Myrrha," she said, "I will not abandon you.... I will stay with you always!"
Myrrha's eyes grew animated and joyous; she faltered—